—From EF—

The Book of Job said it: “Yet man is born unto trouble, As the sparks fly upward.” This might sound like evasion, for there was already a plan in place to run Job through the wringer. Best to say it was his predestined heritage.

In a recent therapy session I had been reaching out to a very fragile memory: a hungry baby crying and crying and denied because the schedule didn’t allow a bottle yet. I was scared, alone, and helpless. As a toddler I was told I that was I no good, defective, and somehow that connected with being hungry. A part of me I call The Guardian sensed my fear: if I’m not good enough I’m going to starve, so grab food if I can get it.

I think this is linked to a compulsion in my present life. When I am confronted with a job where I fear I will fail, the ghost of that that baby’s hunger makes me run to grab something to eat. The Guardian who was created so long ago is still giving orders, in a time when the need is long gone. Confronted with piles of scattered papers on my desk, instead of starting a sorting process (not one of my native skills) I run to the kitchen to grab a handful of peanuts. The worse the mess, the more severe the compulsion.

The Guardian is still protecting that little one. My present self needs to reach out to that hungry, frightened, criticized little being, and help her release that fear. By now I have skills in using ritual. How? Through fire, through water, through air, into earth? My instinct said, Fire. And as soon as that thought formed, an image came.

My friend Steve Fowler had provided his community with many Solstice bonfires, and they were magnificent. Steve knew how to craft a vigorous bonfire that was not a danger to the humans encircling it. Lots of wood, some from deadfall, some from household stuff that wanted to Go Away. A central core, surrounded by four low arched passageways, one for each of the four directions, packed with tinder. When the time was right, four people brought torches to the mouths of the four tunnels. The fire began with a mighty whoosh, and went on for a long time as I watched a seemingly-endless rush of glorious sparks fly up and up into the blue-velvet sky.  

That memory came rushing back into my field of vision, and I gasped with the power of it. There it went, the old dead wood of my baby-self’s failure, the rotten straw of denigration. Steve has crossed the veil, but he took my hand and said, “Look. Look at that!”

Steve left our realm on April 11th. His energy was still powerfully present to many, long afterward. I still have a small packet of his ashes, waiting for me to take them to my power spot at the ocean—under the cliff at Portuguese Beach. He gave me a gift, and I will repay it.

###